Strange that what seemed most inconstant should the most abiding prove;

Strange that what is hourly moving no mutation

can remove:

Ruined lies the cirque! the chariots, long ago, have ceased to roll,

Even the Obelisk is broken, but the shadow still is whole.

What is Fame! if mightiest empires leave so little mark behind,

How much less must heroes hope for, in the wreck of humankind!

Less than even this darksome picture, which I tread beneath my feet,

Copied by a lifeless moonbeam on the pebbles of the street;

Since, if Cæsar's best ambition, living, was to be renowned,

What shall Cæsar leave behind him save the shadow of a sound?

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN

WHERE towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds

O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds,

And temples, doomed to milder change, unfold
A new magnificence that vies with old,

Firm in its pristine majesty hath stood
A votive column, spared by fire and flood;
And, though the passions of man's fretful race
Have never ceased to eddy round its base,
Not injured more by touch of meddling hands
Than a lone obelisk, mid Nubian sands

Or aught in Syrian deserts left to save
From death the memory of the good and brave.
Historic figures round the shaft embost
Ascend, with lineaments in air not lost:

Still as he turns, the charmed spectator sees
Group winding after group, with dream-like ease;
Triumphs in sun-bright gratitude displayed,
Or softly stealing into modest shade.

So, pleased with purple clusters to entwine
Some lofty elm-tree, mounts the daring vine;
The woodbine so, with spiral grace, and breathes
Wide-spreading odors from her flowery wreaths.

Borne by the Muse from rills in shepherds' ears Murmuring but one smooth story for all years, I gladly commune with the mind and heart Of him who thus survives by classic art, His actions witness, venerate his mien,

And study Trajan as by Pliny seen;

Behold how fought the chief whose conquering

sword

Stretched far as earth might own a single lord;

In the delight of mortal prudence schooled,

How feelingly at home the sovereign ruled;
Best of the good,-in pagan faith allied
To more than man, by virtue deified.

Memorial pillar! mid the wrecks of time Preserve thy charge with confidence sublime,— The exultations, pomps, and cares of Rome, Whence half the breathing world received its doom:

Things that recoil from language; that, if shown
By apter pencil, from the light had flown.
A pontiff, Trajan here the gods implores,
There greets an embassy from Indian shores:
Lo! he harangues his cohorts,-there the storm
Of battle meets him in authentic form!
Unharnessed, naked troops of Moorish horse
Sweep to the charge; more high, the Dacian force,
To hoof and finger mailed;—yet, high or low,
None bleed, and none lie prostrate but the foe;
In every Roman, through all turns of fate,
Is Roman dignity inviolate;

Spirit in him pre-eminent, who guides,
Supports, adorns, and over all presides;

Distinguished only by inherent state

From honored instruments that round him wait;
Rise as he may, his grandeur scorns the test
Of outward symbol, nor will deign to rest
On aught by which another is deprest.
Alas! that one thus disciplined could toil

To enslave whole nations on their native soil;
So emulous of Macedonian fame,

That, when his age was measured with his aim,
He drooped, mid else unclouded victories,
And turned his eagles back with deep-drawn sighs.
O weakness of the great! O folly of the wise!

Where now the haughty empire that was spread With such fond hope? Her very speech is dead; Yet glorious Art the power of Time defies, And Trajan still, through various enterprise, Mounts, in this fine illusion, toward the skies: Still are we present with the imperial chief, Nor cease to gaze upon the bold relief, Till Rome, to silent marble unconfined, Becomes with all her years a vision of the mind. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE CORSO: THE ROMAN CARNIVAL.

WHO can forget thy Carnival, Rome, thy Carnival flashing

Joy and life through thy solemn streets? Ah, season when Pleasure

Day after day its kaleidoscope turned of bright robes and bright faces;

Rain of confetti and snowing of flowers from window to window;

Tumult of chatter and laughter, glances of youths and of maidens,

While their exchanges of flowers and bonbons beneath the balconies

Made the heart flutter with dreams of a world too sweet for possession.

Then the masking, the tricoloured plumes in the broad black sombrero;

Blouses and harlequins battling like boys in a snowballing frolic;

While the thronged Corso scarce opened a way for the carriages passing.

Wild was the revelry,-counting no hours from noontide till nightfall;

Till, as behind the solemn old palaces dropped the last sunbeam,

Boomed the loud cannon that cleared the carriages off in an instant.

Then came the cavalry making an opening amid the thronged faces,

Down from the Piazza del Popolo on to the Palace

Venetian:

Then the mad race of the riderless horses, and shouts of the people

Ended each many-hued day. Young hearts grew weary of pleasure.

Tired feet trod upon flowers that lay on the pavement neglected,